Guns and Leather
by Yaya Sour
Summary: In an alternate universe, there's an esteemed assassin called simply "The Doctor" and a renowned cat burglar known as "Ms. Tyler". In a twist of fate, the two are thrown into each other's paths. But was it really just the stars, or are darker forces at play? Based on: orbitingasupernova. tumblr. com /post/17908816974/doctor-and-rose-abc-g-is-for-guns-and-leather no spaces
1. Chapter 0: Case File

Guns and Leather

(( post/17908816974/doctor-and-rose-abc-g-is-for-guns-and-leather .  
thumblarge_ ))

Smith was about to retire the day he was given the beautiful Rose Tyler as his target.

Rose Tyler, cat burglar extraordinaire. Not known for her pity, she's got quite a reputation. She seems to steal for the thrill of it, often sending back her prize. Nobody's sure what she looks like, since her description seems to fade the harder one tries to remember. Preferred weapon: pistol. Wears a black leather cat-suit and knows basic to advanced evasive maneuvers.

Mr. Smith, aka The Doctor, a hit man so called for fixing mistakes and cleaning others' messes. A master of disguise with a variety of aliases, he can seem to change his face at a moment's notice. To top it off, he is a master at fitting in and losing himself in a crowd: even if they had the whole country on high alert with a perfect description, nobody would notice him. Almost like a ghost. He's been through battle and back, fought in more wars than most know exist, and from that he knows his weaponry. He's stronger than he seems and can more than hold his own in hand to hand, though he prefers guns. Less mess: while he's known for cleaning up after others, he prefers not to deal with his own. Best not to linger in one place too long.

Then the man without a name: He's known only as The Master, with a finger in every pot. He's been a faceless title for far too long, seeming to be anyone he would like to, able to make anyone exist. Or cease to. Quieter than the Moriarty-type, he prefers to not make the news. Much better to be anonymous, although he is _well_ known in the undercurrents of the world.

Next, there's Dave Ross, the crooked politician. His climb to power has been steady, though his rise and fall of supporters seem to fluctuate wildly. Even the gleam and glamour he keeps up as his façade for the press can't hide the coldness in his eyes. He has small groups of fanatic supporters that are his cornerstone, but even those closest to him do not know the full extent of his scheme.

Don't forget Jack Harkness, the dual citizen secret-service agent and FBI liaison who has been both saved by and had cases closed thanks to Mr. Smith too often to_ not_ protect him. The occasional aid is given, and the two often end up working opposite ends of a case without knowing it. Works for Harriet Jones and owes her his career.

Harriet Jones: opposing politician to Dave Ross. The better candidate by far with good intentions and better motives, but just as many—if not more—secrets. She took a liking to the young cop Harkness early on in both their careers and has pulled strings for him along the way, getting him rather high up in several world security organizations. You won't see her much, but when you do—then you know things are bad.


	2. Chapter 1: One Last Job

"One last job?"

"No. I'm done. I'm getting too old for this, and I'd rather find a hole in the wall that I won't have to shoot someone from," The Doctor says. He's packing up the last bits of his stuff from a hotel room, his work phone—well, his _only_ phone—open and on speaker.

"Oh, you know you love it…" says the device.

"No, I don't. I'm good at it and it pays. And it pays even more to be as good as me."

"It helps that you don't die," the phone adds helpfully.

"Exactly. And I'd like to keep it that way." The Doctor sighs, looking around the hotel room one last time to make sure there's no real sign of his presence. It's not strictly necessary—nobody would think to connect this room with his latest job—but there's no such thing as too careful. He'd rather not wake up some peaceful morning of retirement and have the law break down his door. "Last job you gave me the bastard fought back. Gave me a nasty cut, too."

"Yeah, well, I got you cleaned up and paid you extra, didn't I?" The mobile's tone is suddenly sharp and clipped. "Look. We need some help here. There's a girl who's causing us a lot of trouble, and I promise you she's not a fighter. She's slippery as all hell, which is why she's a royal pain, but she's not gonna give you any real problems." There's a break of silence, the Doctor knowing to wait for the cherry on top. It's a longer pause than expected, but then the machine sighs, relenting. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Oh, yeah? I've got everything I need. What could you _possibly_ offer me?" He scoffs, but even though one couldn't hear it in his voice, he's smiling. It's all part of the game. He zips shut his suitcase and duffle, the majority of his clothes actually in his carry-on to avoid any security. It was an ironically simple system to get through, even in the toughest airports.

"Free airfare?" The machine laughed at its own joke, then, not hearing any reply, settled down to a real offer, "How about twice your normal rate? Is that enough to catch your interest?"

This is the part he was liked: negotiating. "How about twice my estimate and that free airfare?" He might have been known for his skill with a gun, but Mr. Smith has just as much finesse here. Maybe that's why nobody notices: he's just that good.

"How about one and a half times your estimate?" the phone reasons, "I told you she's not a hard case."

"Twice my estimate but with an itemized list so you can take off what you don't like. And you can pick up my hotel if the airfare's too much."

"Deal," says the phone. "Hell, I might even take you to lunch if you get her out of our hair."

"You might have to make quite a trip. The moment I've collected, I'm going to vanish. Not even a cleaner's receipt with my name, after this."

"You go to the cleaners as 'The Doctor'?" There's genuine shock in the line's tone. If he didn't know his friend and client so well, he would have questioned the man's intelligence.

"Wouldn't you like to know!" he says with a wink. He knows there's no way his friend will see it, but the smirk in his voice can't be missed.

There's a sigh across the line and he knows the security agent is smiling. It's just another game they play. "Just get back here as soon as you can. Where the hell are you anyway?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he replies again. There's no lightness in his tone, this time, and the man knows that they're done here. Both hang up their phones, and while one goes about his day, Mr. Smith picks up his bags and leaves the mediocre hotel. He checks out easily before going out to the waiting taxi. "Charles de Gaulle Aéroport, s'il vous plaît." His accent is perfect, letting him be just another passenger on their way out. The ride is over before he can blink—but that might just be from lack of sleep—and he tips him alright. The whole point is to be just another face in the crowd, and he's certainly gotten good at it.

While he's only going back to London, there's a less conspicuous flight to Edinburgh that would be about as long and less obviously him. "Un billet à Edimbourg, s'il vous plaît," he says, this time sporting an imperfect lilt: perfectly adopting a Scottish accent instead. Enough time lapses and he can switch accents, suddenly just a vacationer going home. They chat in French while he pulls up the economy ticket, one checked bag. Nothing fancy—did you enjoy your stay? Yep, brilliant food. Molto bene. Just chit-chat, enough little bits of specifics in with the vague to be plausible, but not noteworthy.

Then it's a trip through security, completely boring, and a wait for the plane. He takes out a magazine he got at one of the stands and pretends to read when a young businesswoman takes the seat next to him. She's blonde and in a suit, hair in a no-nonsense and chic braid with enough around her face to suit her. "Mind if I sit here?" she asks in a thick London accent. _It's a bit after the fact,_ he thinks, but otherwise just smiles and shakes his head. "Nah, it's fine," he replies, adopting an Estuary English accent for the young lady. It's one of his favorites and the easiest for him to maintain.

She smiles, tongue showing through the gaps in her teeth. "Oh, good! Another Brit. I thought I'd have to pull out my translator again," she chatters, adding as an afterthought, "Business trip. A bit new at travel, really, but if the job demands…" She sighs and falls silent, opening her briefcase to flip through some papers. He smiles slightly at her, watching as she does so and assessing the young woman. He figures she's in maybe her early to mid-twenties, probably came from a good family, and has been newly appointed to a slightly higher position at some multi-national firm. Probably a PR buff. Well, there are more dangerous people to be stuck next to. This should be relatively easy.

"So, what brings you here? France, I mean?" he asks, just making conversation.

The answer he wasn't expecting was, "Business… And pleasure. I'm a Courtesan."


	3. Chapter 2: Getting to Know You

"I'm sorry, you're a _what_?" he sputters.

His shock is just met with laughter before she can say, "What? I'm actually considered a 'lifestyle companion'. More there to provide conversation and be arm candy than anything. What about you?" The girl seems genuinely interested. Her smile doesn't hurt either: it reaches all the way to her eyes, making them sparkle.

"Oh, right, sorry. I'm a professor. Just taking a short holiday to see family, because it all got to be too much. And I got to pick my sub, so the kids'll be safe from bad teaching." He finds himself easily smiling back as he talks. Usually he has to remind himself to do so, but it's almost an unconscious act. She must just have the right personality.

Her eyes lit up even more, if at all possible. "Oooh, a professor. So what do you teach, sir?" She flashes him a cheeky grin, playing off the new information. He chuckles, again, something not usually so easy for him.

"Astronomy," he replies. Usually he'd pick something like history or advanced politics—something that most would find boring. It had the dual impact of shutting conversations down faster and making him more forgettable. But it had been too long since he'd just chatted with someone. Besides, he was well on his way home. The job was untraceable and he was about to retire. The most he'd have to do is give up this specific look, which isn't such a bad compromise for a bit of downtime.

The girl is oblivious to his inner rationing, sighing dreamily before murmuring, "I always loved the stars. The universe is so brilliant. I just never had the patience to get through the physics class I had, so I never thought to even try astronomy. 'Course, if it had been measuring stars, I might have done a bit better." She flashes him that smile again, triggering one in return.

"Nah, you probably just had a rubbish teacher is all. I'm not exactly a physics fan myself, but this one teacher got me into it." He doesn't have any papers to back this up, but thankfully it won't show on this identity's passport. How many teaches bring papers to visit family, anyway? "I'd ask about what you do, but I'm assuming there's some sort of… Service-client confidentiality?"

She nods, leaning back with a sigh. "Usually I just say I'm a temp, but that's been giving me even more questions lately, and I'm rubbish at lying." She opens her mouth to continue, but the loud speaker above them call out a list of numbers following an English and French announcement of, "Now Boarding:" "Oops, that's my seat," she says, mid-announcement. "Lovely to meet you, Professor…?"

"Smith. John Smith." He replies, using the most common name he has. It's used in about half of his aliases. "And the pleasure's all mine, Ms….?"

"Hannah. Hannah Baxter." She sends him another cheeky smile and a wink before saying, "See you on the other side!" With that fond farewell, she vanishes into the crowd.

The plane ride back is short and uneventful, and, while he doesn't see the girl again, a stewardess stops him on the way out. "A young woman in First Class requested this be given to you," she drawls in a thick French accent, "Apparently something you had forgotten?" She holds out a folded piece of legal paper, one corner stained with a lipstick kiss. The name he gave is written clearly on the front in tight, curled writing.

"Ah, yes, sorry. Must've dropped it." He quickly pockets it, leaving with a grin to the woman as thanks.

After that he gets out of there as quickly as possible. He didn't mean to leave an impression, but he had been reckless. It's just another reminder as to why he chooses the professions he does. Lucky for him, this was a low-profile target who gave the law as much trouble as the client. They shouldn't trace it back this far. But still, he should have been more careful. It's not his last case anymore. He can't let his guard down so early.

That night, he takes a bit of a respite. Usually he takes at least a week between jobs, if not a month or more, but something in his friend's voice seemed urgent. That and he wants to just get it over with. One last job for a friend, and then he's set for life: free to pick a place out of the way to relax and hide out. Free to live out his days in peace.

He's in a hotel room again, much higher class this time, nursing one of the travel-sized drinks. Usually he'll settle at home with a brandy to unwind, in the stacks and walls of books that more resemble a library than a flat. But he's got less time to recuperate, so he'll have to make do.

Maybe he'll get a house boat. Or a small house in Europe, but buy a motorbike or trailer to go with it. He's been running for so long that, while he knows that maybe it's time to stop, he really can't see himself settling down. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't see himself living in a proper house. Seriously, who needs doors and… And carpets? At least he won't have to get a mortgage. He's got enough pocketed away from the years to buy a mansion flat-out, cover insurance and a car and everything, and still buy groceries for the next hundred or more years. Most of it's in cash, obviously. And several bank accounts. And some stock. Just in case.

He sighs, shaking his head as he pulls himself from his thoughts, turning on some rubbish television to try and distract himself. Instead, it puts him to sleep.

He wakes up to his mobile, checking the ID an extra time as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. Unlisted number. Great, he thinks, Probably a telemarketer— one who'll get nothing more than a sleepy, mumbled, "Hello?"

"Hello old friend."


	4. Chapter 3: Temptation, Temptation

The voice on the other end sobers him immediately, and The Doctor curses himself for answering so easily. "Master," his voice is wide awake now, and sharp. "It's been a while."

"Did you miss me?" the voice laughs. He's sure it sounds different from last time. Probably put through a computer synthesizer.

"I thought you were dead," the surprise in the Doctor's voice is feigned; doing what he can to paint himself with a different brush. "It's been ages and the papers said there was a fire in one of your warehouses. Was that another trick?"

"No," the voice says, more amused than anything, "But then again, there's no way they'd know that I set the fire. Well, not me personally. I brought in a plumber. I needed to plug a few leaks." There's a pause while they each wait for the other's move, extended when The Doctor refuses to go first. "There is a reason I called, you know. If I wanted idle chit-chat, I would have called Captain Harkness. Yes, I know you work for him. I also know you just accepted another job. Bit eager for work for someone about to retire."

"Favor for an old friend." The Master must be desperate; tailing him is tough. Why would he even bother to find out his plans if otherwise? "I'm done with this life. It's time to stop running."

"So I heard." Suddenly, his tone is all business. Not even the modulator could hide that. "Look. I want the girl just as much as he does. He'll want to bring her in to arrest. I'd prefer her company for more… Personal reasons. It would really be a shame, but understandable, if she were to, say, get into the wrong cab. And I'll give double your current salary."

His words send a shiver down The Doctor's spine. Whatever this girl had done to put a bee in The Master's bonnet, it was enough to get a personal request. He didn't often feel pity for someone, especially not a target, but this girl was in some serious trouble. "That must be pocket change for you. Less than. Come on, you can do better than that," His voice is crisp, sharp for business, but only because it's part of the game. He might be a hit man, but The Master goes _far _too far for his standards.

"Oh, getting greedy, are we?" The Master's laugh was sharp and cold, almost humorless and more than enough to send more chills his way. "I remember when you first started out, I could get you into a much harder job for double the cost of arms and munitions. But fine. How about fifteen times your current estimate? Does that make the pot sweet enough, Doctor?"

That shocked him. He knew The Master was big—or at least big headed—but to throw out that high a cost so casually? And so quickly? That's bad. "Yeah, like you're really gonna uphold that. Even if it is chump change, that's just _begging_ for the authorities to come take a look at me. Fat chance." He probably wouldn't accept if the scumbag offered him the _world_. He just hoped it wouldn't come to that: playing for both sides had perks, and turning down The Master didn't usually end well. Any really big offer and he'd be out of excuses to say no.

Later that day he's hating himself.

He actually kept the woman's phone number. And now he's seriously considering looking at it. Or using it.

"What have you gotten yourself into, this time?" The Doctor asks himself. He twirls the new little bottle in his hand, forehead wrinkling as he glares at the small paper on the bed.

It takes him three hours of reminding himself of his rules and why they were in place, but he finally tucks it into one of his pockets and turns his attentions elsewhere. He wasn't going to ruin his identity any more than he had, but he couldn't bring himself to throw away the paper.

"Only three more days," He reminds himself, "Three more days until I should head back."

"… Maybe I should make it two."


	5. Chapter 4: A Final Start

There's a knock at the door to his hotel room. Nobody ever knocks at where he is unless he orders room service, which he hasn't, yet. With a sigh, The Doctor gets up, smiling for whoever's there to hide his distrust.

"Er… Flowers for a Mister… John Smith?" A pimply and freckled kid says, half asking, with a glance to the vase of pink and yellow roses in his hands.

"I didn't order any," The Doctor replies simply, looking bemused for the kid.

"Don't have to, sir," The kid replies with a smile, his voice cracking, "They're a gift from someone. Just read the card."

He smiles and shakes his head, subtly holding his breath as he takes them and mutters a thank you. Nobody but an amateur would try anything with a public service like this. Especially since it was a major company. But who else would be able to track him down?

So he does as instructed and reads the card: "Want to get a coffee? Or maybe chips? –Hannah Baxter"

He just stares at the card for a moment. How did she find him? What, did he slip up and…

Fuck. He used the same name for his hotel reservation. And he calls himself a professional.

The Doctor ends up staying for the required two days… But he switches hotels. And towns. And identities.

The trip back to his flat in London is uneventful.

He gets to use one of his older identities – in every sense of the word. He looks about 60, white hair and sharp eyes, and acts like just an active old Englishman. It was one of his first alternate identities, started as a joke with a partner when he first made his name in the industry: She used to pretend to be his granddaughter. It was more fun, back then. He'd snipe at someone with words every so often and she'd act shocked or try to make nice. Too bad Susan settled down. He read somewhere in the paper that she'd been caught up in a family member's war and was presumed dead, along with quite a few of his old contacts… Just one more thing to isolate him, he supposed.

When he's back, however, he undoes his prosthetics and unpacks just in time for his phone to ring. It's Jack.

"Hey," his friend says, not even waiting for a hello, "We've just got an anonymous tip that Ms. Tyler is going after the Crown of Queen Elizabeth. She must have a hell of a lot of confidence, since it's still locked in the Tower of London and is easily protected."

"When's she going to go after it?" The Doctor asks, already planning how to best approach this.

"Next week we've got a bit of an event for the girl guides," Harkness replies, "and the security is going to be a bit more focused away from the Tower. Normally we'd just add more, but given past experiences…"

"I've got it, Jack. Just tell me where you want her dropped off." The Doctor then writes down the slight idea he's got – as well as a reminder to use his tranquilizer gun – and smirks at the fact he can make his friend laugh before hanging up.

He gets his flat into order one last time before turning to sort through what his plan of attack will be. "Save them one last time," he says to his laptop, waiting for it to power up, "I remember when I thought I would never be done saving them… Never thought I'd feel this old."

**((A/N: Sorry I've been gone a while! I went to a 5-day con and met a Doctor who I am now the Rose for and the week since has been… Distracting. Anyway, I'm hopefully going to be able to write longer and more often [sorry for inconsistent updates, btw] and finish the two prompts I also have running. If not, I apologize, but please bear in mind I might be busy either working on my vocal group/press kit or some other [potentially professional!] writing! Which reminds me, I have to call that man about his manuscript… **

**Anyway! Comments, questions, prompts, and recipes are always welcome~ Hope you liked the [unfortunately short] addition! Ta!))**


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